


Welcome to Widdershins Close

by Zigzagwanderer



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Dark Comedy, Meet-Cute, Prompt Fic, Ray Bradbury homage, kind of crack?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 06:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17658131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zigzagwanderer/pseuds/Zigzagwanderer
Summary: This is in response to a meet-cute prompt challenge, see Cinnamaldeide and Fhimechan on Tumblr etc if anyone else wants to play!It's also inspired by a favourite writer of mine, Ray Bradbury. As is usual with me, it bears little or no resemblance to either Bradbury's work (!!!) or the prompt (!!!), which went something like this;-"Meet-cute prompt #29. It's 5am. Person A has problems with their coffee-maker and naturally it ends up being tossed in the dumpster. Person B witnesses this, out or a stroll with their dog."Naturally, I interpreted this to mean that Will, a profiler, moves into a neighbourhood where Things Are Not Quite What They Seem.....





	Welcome to Widdershins Close

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TreacleA](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TreacleA/gifts).



First came an ominous, aromatic sputtering, then the fireworks _really_ began.

Will jumped, jitterbugged and covered all that was tender and holy with a dishcloth, while scalding coffee sprayed arterially across his newly acquired kitchen. 

Winston howled out a lament from behind the still shrink-wrapped sofa. 

“Aw, crackersnaps,” Will cursed, flapping at the malfunctioning machine as if it was an Edwardian maiden with the vapours. “Guess the furniture movers didn’t see just how fragile you were..?” 

Shredded filter papers blizzarded. 

Unpacked packing crates conspired against elbows and knees. 

“Baby,” Will stumbled to the side porch and sent the entire flaming armful sailing towards Valhalla. “Breakfast just won’t be the same without you.” 

A Sahara of hot grounds had sifted, sinuously, onto Will's bare feet, so he waded past the smouldering trash and down across the quietly dew-streaming yard. 

Torturous wildwood, leaping with antlers and leafed in feathering black, caged in the unassuming little suburb. Will wriggled his toes and sighed as he stared into the graveclay greys and umbers. 

A tall, red-eyed man in a thousand-dollar suit gazed back. 

The creature at the man’s feet whipped a crooked tail, and Will blinked, and kept blinking until the scaled and spiked ripple of horror resolved itself into a mutt. Elegant and ebon, with a haughty look about her muzzle, but a mutt nonetheless. 

The man came onto the path in all of his magnificent motley. “May I interrupt your mourning to ask; are you as close to all of your…devices?”

The man’s darling, darkling voice brought a dragging, scalpel-tip-shiver to Will’s spine. The movement of his mouth, well, that did all kinds of things to all kinds of other parts of Will’s boxer-shorted body.

“Uh, well, y’know, only the, uh, ones I _rely_ on.” 

Will crouched down to pet the accompanying beast, and cool his rioting blushes in the plentiful shadows around where his neighbour stood. 

For there was no denying that Will was lonesome; a life expended catching serial killers was not conducive to going steady, nor was Will partial to the muddy aftertaste of a flashing, flooding, one-night-stand.

In consequence, there was indeed a trim wooden box marked ‘Private-Please Leave Unopened in Master Bedroom!’ waiting impatiently somewhere among the strapped suitcases and beloved bundles of books.

“Caffeine assists venous constriction and dilation,” the man squeezed and released Will with his words. “And so adds a little… _bite_ to the lifeblood of the… _early riser._ ” 

One long finger reached down, stroking one pyramidal ear. 

Will watched the affectionate, possessive touch, and rainbowed from red to green to the deepest of deep blues. 

“Chiyoh, my dear,” the man warned, as an impossible number of teeth began to glitter towards Will’s tender, trembling hand, “if you cannot remember your manners, then you must return to your kennel…” 

Will felt himself scrutinised. And sniffed. 

Thoroughly. 

By the man. 

The queen-in-furs merely grumbled wolfishly up at her master, then stalked away across the sparkling series of front lawns, leaving nary a pawprint among the dawny diamonds. 

Will had already puzzled plenty over the absurdly grand and gargoyled house that dominated the pleasant cul-de-sac. 

And at the glowing brass plate screwed to the mansion’s gate-post. Glowing like hell-fire and scrimshawed in Gothic cursive, it advertised the discreet services of one Dr Lecter, _‘Psychiatrist To The Uncommon Community_.” 

Draping his desire in the charred kitchen cloth, Will stood up and heard the regal creak of a hulking doorway, followed by an unmistakeably scornful slam.

“A temperamental breed,” the man shimmered out a shrug, all shoulders and sex, and Will resisted the urge to run back inside and comb his hair. Shave. Go put on cologne and a tuxedo. 

Maybe even a pair of pants. 

He ruffled his curls in compromise. 

“I…uh, moved in…last night…” 

“Apparently so.” The man frowned, and daybreak itself froze, the ripening, peaching skies scared starry again. 

“In fact, you somehow appear to have purchased the Gideon estate without the knowledge or consent of the Widdershins Close Resident’s Committee.” It came out cold, colder, _coldest._ “What is to be done about that?” 

“Beg pardon,” Will corrected. “But I didn’t buy it. I…uh… _inherited_ it.” 

“Impossible, I am sure.” If hospitality and trust were dimes, Will thought, then his interrogator had better start calling Transylvania collect. “I understood that Abel had _eaten_ all of his relatives?” 

Will bounced his curls again. It usually helped uncrank the kinky. “Oh, he did. I mean, by the time I interviewed him, he’d even got around to frying up the family goldfish.” 

Easier to swallow a fin fricassee, Will reckoned, than Gideon’s endless Lovecraftian ravings.  
Stories of falling out with a secret, supernatural society.  
Tales of how he’d been excommunicated from the esoteric enclave he’d been once been a part of, and driven completely _sane_ as punishment for unmentionable anti-crimes. 

“Of course…” Will added, thoughtfully, “by then, he was kind of…just a…head…” 

The man tutted. “Autocannibalism. An unfortunate appetite.” 

“You said a mouthful.” Will bit his lip. “Sorry. Profiler’s humour.” 

Some days, it was all that got him through his _interesting_ work. 

Will closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the acid odour of the BSHCI, the dizzying corridors, the offhand abandonment he always suffered at the whim of his FBI co-workers, all eager to leave him to ‘do his empathy thing’ with whatever kookie killer had cartwheeled into notoriety that particular month. 

Jack Crawford had joked that Abel had proven his psychosis simply by seeing poor, porcelain Will as friend material. 

“That was extremely rude of him.” The man stirred himself into Will’s private, bitter brewings, like a swirl of soothing, velveting cream. “Please, do continue, dear Mr…Graham. Your thoughts are unusually…tasty...for a...law enforcement officer.” 

Will opened his baby blues _wide_. 

Somehow, they’d clambered all aboard the padded porch swing. 

Will stoked and steamed. 

“Uh, well,” he stuttered, “Gideon held in his hogwash long enough to transfer the deeds of his house over to me. Before his head, er, mysteriously…defenestrated.” 

“Hmm. But surely such a covenant could not be legally binding?” The man murmured, a kiss away from Will’s naked shoulder. “His handwriting alone must have been, hmm, _impenetrable_?” 

“The whole darn escapade sounds cuckoo-crazy, I know.” Will fluttered lashes fit to comb King Kong’s quiff. “But, by heck, that paperwork can stand up tall and proud in any court in the land!” 

Will, woozy, took in a breath of air. Frankincense and frangipane teased his tastebuds and trickled down his throat. 

Lordy. He wondered if Abel’s curse could be catching; it was all he could do not to swallow the man beside him _whole_. 

He found himself turning and confessing. “And, so, out of nowhere, I had something I have never had before…somewhere to call my own. Someplace maybe even I can…fit in.” 

Will’s whisper was a brutal blend of the winsome and the wistful. 

“Oh,” the man said, and sat back, a little uncertainly. "I see." 

Sunrise stopped cowering under the horizon and strutted into view, chicken yellow turning gold. 

A volt of nearby vultures recommenced a tentative and rasping reveille.

“It would seem, _Will_ , that you have been in search of a… _home_...”. 

Overhead, a bank of blonde cloud swerved up out of nowhere, sprinkling and powder-puffing and dampening the entire moment. 

Will captured a droplet on his tongue and tasted...chardonnay. 

“Please, Bedelia, not now,” the man scowled gorgeously and swatted the giddy mass towards his yonder turrets. “Our appointment is scheduled for six sixty-six precisely. You can water the pitcher plants while you wait. But do not get them drunk. Again.” 

Crackling with tiny sparks, the cloud bunched up and zigzagged across the street. 

“Guns-and-garters! Is it nearly seven already?” Will sprang reluctantly from his nook. “The boss pencilled me in to pick apart his newest nutjob at nine. Gotta fly!” 

With impeccable courtesy, the man also stood up and stepped back, generously allowing for take-off. 

“I, uh, mean,” Will clarified, anti-climactically, “I have to, uh, drive...over to Quantico.” 

“Ah. My mistake," the man gave Will an infernal look. "Angels, in my experience, almost always have wings...” 

The dead air between them settled, pure and peaceful as tomb-dust, right up until Winston ambled over, crumbed in mud, and carrying Abel Gideon’s freshly disinterred left foot in his chops. 

Will covered his nose with his dishcloth.

The man paid attention to where the dishcloth had been. 

“I forgot to buy sausages,” Will muffled out, sadly. 

“Abel was dreadfully old-fashioned. He never did take to storing his leftovers in plasticware.” The man unsheathed a soft smile. Will wished for nothing more than to be cut to ribbons on it over and over and over again. “I can assure you that we Widdershinners are not all so difficult to please. Perhaps I could offer you supper, to help...ease you in?” 

Will wanted to be eased in. By the man. A lot. 

"I’d like that. But I won’t be, er, _home_ …’til late?” 

“Then we dine at midnight!” 

Will suddenly paled. “But what about the gosh-darned Widdershins Close Resident’s Whatchimacallit? Shouldn’t I meet them too? See if I can pass muster?” 

The man walked away. Backwards. “I shall instruct them personally to attend. In my position as committee Chair.” 

Winston chewed happily on a jutting ankle-bone. Will leaned prettily against the porch railing. 

The breaking day was bloodshot and _beautiful_. 

“So, if you’re the Chair,” Will called out, shyly, “then does the guest of honour get to sit on you?” 

“Arrive an hour before the others and find out,” Dr Lecter growled. 

And, with a wink and a bow, he upped and disappeared. 


End file.
